


the body and the mind can't heal in two

by wyverning



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Exy (All For The Game), M/M, Minor panic attack, Recovery and healing, a dash of angst, a musicians au where hardly anyone actually plays an instrument, a sprinkle of humor, andrew having feelings and some of them are good ones, brosten, disabled neil, neil playing guitar badly, vague mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25761364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverning/pseuds/wyverning
Summary: Neil's physical therapist has him learning to play guitar in the aftermath of his father's particular brand of affection. A wee bit of technological ineptitude later, and he finds himself going viral and reluctantly inviting a local band by the name of The Monsters into his life.
Relationships: Neil Josten & Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 20
Kudos: 237





	the body and the mind can't heal in two

**Author's Note:**

> far from the greatest piece of prose i have ever composed, but sometimes you just need a kick in the pants to get that writing brain back into gear, and [kay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihaveacleverfandomurl/pseuds/ihaveacleverfandomurl) was kind enough to oblige me. ♥ this one's for you, 4-kay! 
> 
> the prompt here was "more band au," so naturally i produced this fic, which has approximately nothing to do with actual band culture and everything to do with andriel having Feelings with a capital F. so. here we are. please do not ask me about the actual backstory or lore of this fic. i do not know, either. enjoy!

“I have no idea what any of this means,” Neil says for what feels like the millionth time. His patience is beginning to run thin: he cares deeply for Matt, really, he does, but that doesn’t make any of this less frustrating.

“Well,” Matt says, waving his phone around like it’s a meaningful prop instead of the seminal object of Neil’s current aggravations. “See, buddy, you know how everyone always ends up getting the same viral infections? Like the flu, or — or chickenpox?”

Neil stares at his roommate flatly. “Yes, Matt. I know how basic biology works.”

“You asked! You _asked_ for an explanation!”

“No,” he disagrees with a grimace. “I’m fine not understanding. In fact, I don’t _want_ to. Obviously there are some things that will forever be beyond me.”

“It’s just a term for something online that spreads like wildfire,” Matt continues, as though Neil’s current desires are unfathomable. “Just like a regular virus does. Or a computer virus. Hey, maybe _that’s_ where it actually comes from?”

“Okay,” Neil says slowly, resigned. “Clearly I’m not getting out of this. But why did it happen to _me?_ ”

“Because, my friend, the world craves your depravity. One of your videos for Samina went viral.”

“That’s not possible,” Neil says. “The videos were private.”

“Uhhh. No, Neil. They weren’t. Hence why one of them went _viral.”_

Neil snatches Matt’s phone and opens it — he’s known Matt’s pin code for a year — to a freeze-frame still of Neil’s own face. Squinting suspiciously at it, he says, “How do I know Samina didn’t just send it to you? I know she has your number since you’re always my ride.”

“You’ve caught me,” Matt says, face bleak. “This was all an elaborate prank.” Then he cracks and offers Neil a playful shoulder-bump. “Face the facts. You sucked at internet security and now the whole world knows how funny you really are.”

Tapping a single finger on the screen, Matt gestures to the video as it resumes.

 _“Ah, fuck,”_ Neil’s past-self curses as his guitar slips from his grasp. Neil remembers the moment well: the spasm of pain that had jolted through his fingers, shocking him into losing grip entirely. In the video, the guitar hits the ground with a loud, discordant twang. _“Look, mom,”_ Neil says with a smirk at the camera, _“no hands!”_ It’d been the last time he’d tried playing standing up: after the unfortunate incident, he’d taken to practicing guitar while firmly seated.

Then past-Neil furrows his brow, curses again, and ponders, _“Is it illegal to make mom jokes when your mom’s not even alive anymore? Maybe not illegal, but immoral? Does the morality of it change depending upon the circumstances of said mother’s death? Though that’s probably above your paygrade, Samina.”_

“Everyone thinks you’re a riot,” Matt says, hitting pause on the video again. “And I mean _everyone,_ because, like, this video already has 3 million views.”

Neil frowns. “I never meant for anyone to see it.” And that’s an honest truth: Samina requires at least one piece of proof per week that Neil’s keeping up with her recommendations. And though he’d never been the type of person to gravitate toward instruments before — well, _before —_ the exercises were fairly effective in restoring full movement to Neil’s appendages. So he’d dutifully recorded his practices and uploaded them to what he’d _thought_ was only accessible by him and his physical therapist.

Matt’s gaze softens from amusement to concern. “Do you want me to delete it for you? It won’t make the video disappear from online entirely, but it’ll help things blow over more quickly.”

He thinks about it. His body’s wounds have scabbed over and healed and scarred, and there’s a certainty now that his father’s men have been taken care of once and for all. Enough time has passed that, while Neil’s instincts about being visible and a target and _easy to kill_ are there, yelling at him to _runhidedisappear_ , he can manage to think past them. 

Eventually, he shakes his head. “It’s fine. But can you just — show me how to make everything from now on private, for real?”

“Yeah,” Matt says with a nod. “Of course.”

* * *

“Holy shit,” Nicky crows from his position on the couch. “Andrew, have you seen this?”

“No,” Andrew responds. Knowing Nicky, it’s probably a Tiktok he’s already seen or an animal picture that he frankly doesn’t give a shit about. It’s rare that brevity actually works to deter Nicky, but Andrew’s feeling pleasantly optimistic about his odds right now.

Approximately one-point-six seconds later, his pleasant optimism flees the vicinity as Nicky shoves his phone in Andrew’s face. 

“Watch this,” he demands. Andrew grits his teeth so hard he feels his skull pulse with the pressure, and just barely refrains from shoving Nicky back and leaving the living room altogether. But he’s gotten better over the years, and the impulse passes the moment he recognizes that Nicky’s giddiness has just made him careless. 

Andrew already knows that no one would follow directions all of the time, anyway, so there’s no point in trying to _talk_ to Nicky about being lackadaisical about commands.

He looks at Nicky’s phone screen. It’s opened to a video of an attractive redhead standing in front of the camera, guitar in hand. He has black splints wrapped around both hands, and he’s biting at his bottom lip in concentration when Nicky presses play.

 _“I’m only doing this until I’m strong enough to hurl this monstrous thing directly into the sun,”_ the guy tells the camera, his face solemn despite the twinkle in his blue-blue- _blue_ eyes. _“Because, seriously. Associating extreme pain with a single object is not ideal. There has to be some sort of law against it. I’m not getting paid enough for this. Actually, I’m not getting paid at_ all. _I’m paying_ you _to do this. What the fuck? The American healthcare system is a disaster.”_

Then he grins, and the silver sheen of scars across his face pull taut as he strums a few notes.

It shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as it is.

Andrew pushes Nicky’s phone out of his field of vision, abruptly irritated. There’s an itch in the back of his mind that feels dangerously close to _interest,_ and he squashes it. “Why.”

“He lives in Palmetto,” Nicky chirps. “We _have_ to collab with him.”

That sounds like a terrible idea. “He’s awful.” In every way, but especially his guitar skill. A two-year-old could probably do a better job than him.

Nicky nods. “Oh, absolutely. But it’ll be hilarious, and besides, think about the eye candy.”

Andrew doesn’t do — whatever the hell Nicky and Aaron have created over the past two years — because of its networking opportunities. It’s an outlet, pure and simple: fighting has resulted in enough bruised knuckles and broken noses for a lifetime, and he can be as vicious as he likes on his drums without repercussion.

The band had been a small project between them that gained an alarming amount of steam. They have _notoriety,_ now, at least in Columbia. Outside of Eden’s and the other local venues they perform at, people have _recognized_ them before.

Once, someone even called Andrew _Aaron._ It had been awful.

The calluses on his hands are a satisfying drag against the rest of his skin, though. Proof of hard work. Proof that he can beat something to shit and not be hauled to jail for it.

Andrew considers Nicky’s proposition. Roland’s been out of town for months, taking care of his sick dad, and really, Andrew’s not above thinking with his dick. The redhead seems mouthy. Palmetto’s a bit of a drive, but that’s never bothered him before. If Nicky reaches out and it bears fruit, maybe he’ll get a hook-up out of it.

“If he says no,” Andrew says slowly, “you drop it. No questions asked, no whining.”

“Deal!” 

* * *

**A Potential Collaboration Opportunity**

The Monsters <themonstersband@gmail.com>

to jos10@gmail.com

Hey!! My name is Nicky, and I’m part of a local band in Columbia with my cousins. We loved your video, and would be super interested in doing a collaboration with you. Let me know what you think!

  
  


**RE: A Potential Collaboration Opportunity**

Neil J <jos10@gmail.com>

to themonstersband@gmail.com

uh i don’t actually do band stuff. the viral thing or whatever was a mistake

  
  


**RE: RE: A Potential Collaboration Opportunity**

The Monsters <themonstersband@gmail.com>

to jos10@gmail.com

Haha no offense but we can kind of tell. Though your rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star was absolutely awe-inspiring. It doesn’t have to be anything serious, but consider it! You’re hilarious and we’d give you 50% of video profits

  
  


**RE: A Potential Collaboration Opportunity**

Neil J <jos10@gmail.com>

to themonstersband@gmail.com

i’m not making a new video 

  
  


**RE: RE: RE: A Potential Collaboration Opportunity**

The Monsters <themonstersband@gmail.com>

to jos10@gmail.com

Ah, okay. :( Hope your recovery continues to go well!

* * *

Neil doesn’t tell Matt about the emails; it’s not like he’s doing anything _wrong._ Matt doesn’t need to know every single detail about his life. 

But there’s a niggling sense of — something. He’s not interested in anything like online fame, but he’d checked out Nicky’s band on Youtube after the email exchange only to be pleasantly surprised. Nicky’s friendliness had seemed far too upbeat for any type of musical genre Neil would even _consider_ trying, but they have a much darker tone to their songs, and the lyrics Nicky belts out passionately aren’t half-bad.

There are only two live sets recorded and posted on The Monsters’ Youtube page. It’s at some place called Eden’s Twilight, and the lighting’s awful, but over the past week, Neil’s probably populated half of each video’s views.

The band’s good. Nicky, Neil thinks, based on his constant bubbliness — has a smooth, impressive voice that’s captivating. He has a decent screaming voice, too, which is entirely unexpected. Their guitarist is a sullen presence on the stage, frowning throughout each song, and his guitar is nearly the same size as him, but his fingers fly over the strings with an adeptness that Neil envies. Would that his own appendages could obey instructions so efficiently.

But it’s the drummer who Neil can’t stop watching.

His timing is impeccable, and his sense of rhythm is so strong that even to Neil’s untrained eyes it’s obvious that he’s the foundation of their music. His arms are muscled as he beats down on the percussion instruments, and there’s a fire to his eyes and a set to his jaw that Neil can’t avert his gaze from.

He spends a full week unable to do much but think about the drummer’s — Andrew, the video caption says — intensity.

* * *

**sure**

Neil J <jos10@gmail.com>

to themonstersband@gmail.com

hey

**RE: sure**

The Monsters <themonstersband@gmail.com>

to jos10@gmail.com

Hello there! To what do we owe the pleasure of your extremely brief email?

  
  


**RE: RE: sure**

Neil J <jos10@gmail.com>

to themonstersband@gmail.com

we can do your thing. i’m not driving to you though

* * *

“They’re a pretty successful group,” Matt says. He’s settled into the couch, Neil’s legs draped over his own, as a new song starts playing from his surround-sound speakers. “It’ll be a good opportunity for you to meet some new friends, too.”

“I already said yes,” says Neil. “You don’t need to keep — trying to convince me, or whatever it is you’re doing.”

It’s an absolute lie, because Neil regretted all of the emails immediately after sending them. He’d responded to Nicky after a brutal day of PT, his entire body aching and his mood foul after giving up seven minutes into today’s walking exercises. It had been an act of sort-of defiance, forcing his numb, aching fingers to painstakingly type out every word.

Lola’s cruelty extends even beyond her death, and though the feeling in three of his fingers will never return, Neil’s aware that the other seven are much luckier. The fact that he can even do these sorts of things is a vast improvement from a year ago, when he’d shown up in South Carolina still bleeding through the bandages.

“I just… still don’t get the viral thing,” he continues. “Or why they’d want me to do anything with them.”

“They see the value of your possible friendship,” Matt says in a tone he absolutely thinks is defined as _wise._ “And also they live like, an hour away. The convenience is _fate,_ obviously.”

“Think they’ll be weird about — “ Neil gestures to the entirety of himself.

“Most people are,” Matt concedes, “but also, you’re wearing your braces and your chair’s in the background of the video. If they’re that awful at inferring, then I can probably intimidate them out of the apartment within a few minutes.”

Neil cranes his neck in Matt’s direction to shoot him a disbelieving look. “ _You._ Managing to Intimidate anyone.”

Matt protests immediately: “Hey! I’m tall and buff! That’s scary to most people!”

“Until you look at them and they instantly recognize that you’re actually a golden retriever in a human suit.”

“This is abuse. You’re abusing me.”

Neil snuggles into the couch and grabs the tv remote to put something mindless on. “That’s the one privilege granted to me for surviving torture. Now rub my feet.”

* * *

When the doorbell rings, Neil manages to make it to the door without slowing down once, and it’s an accomplishment even as he opens it and then has to lean against the wall for support.

“Hi,” he says to the three men at his front door.

“Hey!” Nicky’s frenetic with excitement, and it’s the kind of energy that carries him during a show. “Andrew brought his compact set of drums, and we still have to run down to the car again to grab them, but it’s _so_ nice to meet you! And who are _you,_ Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome? Neil didn’t tell me his roommate was a _model — “_

“That’s Matt. Matt, Nicky,” Neil says, because he has no idea what to do with that barrage of words. Behind Nicky’s positively-vibrating frame is a pair of twins, and it’s almost a blessing that they’re both quiet in contrast to Nicky’s word vomit. “Come on in.”

Neil grips his cane and slowly makes his way into the living room. His path takes him past his currently-unused wheelchair, and it’s tempting, but he opts for the couch instead. Sinking into its plush cushions is one of life’s simplest pleasures.

“Hope the drive wasn’t too bad,” he says as The Monsters pile into his and Matt’s apartment. Nicky’s waving his hands wildly and telling Matt something about how _if he wasn’t married._ Standing in the hallway entrance, Aaron — it must be Aaron, because he’s scowling and has a guitar case strapped to his back — gives Neil a once-over before opening his mouth like he’s about to say something.

Neil’s heard it all before. He braces himself.

And then Andrew elbows Aaron so hard it knocks the wind out of him, and Neil can’t help the sharp, bright peal of laughter that bursts out.

“Well,” he says brightly. “Thanks for that. Means I don’t have to do it, though it’s always fun to see how hard I can swing this thing.” He gestures to his cane meaningfully, and Aaron sputters, “You don’t actually _hit_ people — “ while Matt chuckles and says, _“_ _Well, actually…”_

* * *

Neil is just as, if not moreso, attractive in-person as he was in the video.

Andrew isn’t sure whether to curse or thank Nicky (in his mind, of course, he’d never deign to do something so debasing _aloud_ ) for the idea to collaborate with him. Though it doesn’t appear much collaborating is actually going on, because somehow they’re watching a terrible reality television show while Neil shouts indignant insults at every person who appears on-screen.

Neil’s threat has curbed Aaron’s snide comments about his visible scars. Andrew doesn’t have the patience to deal with taking his brother to the hospital after stabbing him, so the reprieve gives him the opportunity to turn his full attention toward Neil. He seems amused and lighthearted enough, but there’s a set to his shoulders like he can’t quite shake the paranoia that’s so obviously as deeply rooted as the marks upon his skin.

It’s for that reason that Andrew finds it hard to look away.

* * *

The day goes by far too quickly, all things considered.

Nicky suggests they grab some food before they practice, and Matt ends up ordering delivery, and the resulting war about pineapple on pizza makes Neil think this video thing is never going to happen. 

(“It’s fruit,” Neil ends up saying to Andrew. Somehow, they’ve ended up on the same couch, and it’s surprising to realize that though it’s only been half of a day, Neil feels no alarm at having a relative stranger so close to him. “All fruit’s good no matter what it’s on.”

“It’s an abomination,” Andrew counters. “Sweet foods deserve better.”)

Neil’s not displeased: though he regretted responding to Nicky at first, he finds himself relaxing into the conversations they share. It’s just one day, not enough to truly shake the hypervigilance that has dogged Neil’s steps since he was born, but — it was a good call, to have them over.

* * *

Andrew nearly forgets they’re there to create a mockery of a song cover with Neil’s regrettable lack of musical talent. He spends the better part of the day trading quiet barbs with the sharp, dark sense of humor that had first caught his interest from Neil’s viral video.

He finds himself evaluating every response and look from Neil, weighing the probability of it being _flirty_ and _intentional_ and _worth reacting to_. Neil's eyes have been on him all day, a constant itch at the back of his neck. He’s starting to feel high-strung, the way he gets when he goes too long without redirecting his building energy and rage into drums designed to handle and sing the praises of such abuse.

Unacceptable.

He glances over at his family, sees Aaron opening up to Matt’s sickly, overwhelming brand of kindness and Nicky obviously texting Erik something ridiculous, and needs to get some air.

A smoke break will help him clear his thoughts.

* * *

Neil considers going outside and heads toward his wheelchair for the task. The cane’s decent for short distances, but relying on it too often makes his hands ache to the bone. It’s much easier to traverse the route from his apartment to the street with the motor-powered chair, and Matt shoots him a questioning look before Neil waves it off and sinks into the well-used leather.

Navigating the hallways of his apartment complex has become so routine that Neil hardly even resents not being able to do it on-foot anymore. He’s _alive_ to be annoyed by the mundane, overly-complicated twists and turns, and that’s a far better fate than what his father had had planned. 

Nathan may have made sure that Neil can never run again, but there’s a distinct freedom in knowing that he will never _have_ to. He’s safe, now, and he never could have anticipated making it this far, where he has friends and a routine and a life.

He spots Andrew easily enough: despite the other man’s lack of height, he’s a clear presence among the bustle of the street. Neil catches his eye and follows him until they’re in the mouth of an alley that runs perpendicular to the apartment complex.

Andrew doesn’t say anything, pulling out a cigarette pack and smacking it against the flat of his palm before lighting up.

“Most people can’t help but ask or make some sort of comment,” Neil muses, some previously-unknown part of him relaxing as the scent of smoke wafts toward him. It never fails to remind him of his mom, one of her few crutches when they’d still been on the run. “But you don’t even seem curious.” 

“I don’t do anything by accident,” Andrew replies. He must see the way Neil’s shoulders sag, because he offers the lit cigarette caught between his fingers. Neil takes it, carefully wrapping his fingers around the slim stick. It’s a vast improvement from his fine motor skills from even a few months ago: for all that it’s a miserable experience, it seems as though playing the guitar is working.

He doesn’t smoke it, but holds it close to his chest and enjoys the smell as it curls around him. “Why drums?”

Andrew cuts him a glance before pointedly turning his attention toward the cars speeding past them on the asphalt. “Juvie,” he says before taking a drag. “Turns out the _rehab_ part of the experience was to teach delinquent teenagers as many violent-but-legal activities as possible.”

Neil looks appraisingly at him. “Shame they didn’t have any ice rinks. I’m sure you would have been a world-class hockey player.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean.”

“Watching you.” Neil takes a single drag on his own cigarette to keep it burning. “You play like it’ll eat you up inside if you don’t. I can only imagine how good you’d be turning all of that toward a sport. And you can break bones without even a penalty on the ice.”

The tobacco should loosen Andrew up, sating what’s a clear addiction if the clinging smell of smoke to his frame is any indicator, but he visibly tenses at Neil’s words. Neil sucks on his teeth, hand flying toward the control of his wheelchair. He won’t apologize for overstepping, or reading the situation wrong or something, but he’s perceptive enough to know that now’s the time to back off.

“Wish me luck,” he says with a rueful smile as he turns his chair back toward the apartment. “Your cousin’s… a lot.”

Though Andrew doesn’t say anything as Neil heads back inside, he does offer a two-fingered salute from the alleyway.

* * *

Andrew thinks he might hate Neil Josten.

There’s no way someone could _know_ him like that after watching a few grainy videos of Eden’s shows. It’s impossible.

He reaches for one of Bee’s strategies as his heart rate kicks up its pace until it’s thumping audibly in his ears. 

The stoplight. The shitty Subaru sitting at the stoplight. A pigeon. A jogger running across the street. The neon sign of the bodega on the corner.

His armbands pressed snugly against his skin. The pressure of his feet on the ground. The cigarette burning down to its filter in his hand. The slickness of his teeth as he runs his teeth over them.

A baby crying. The sound of Neil’s chair as he moves away. The opening and closing of a door.

Smoke. Sweat.

The acrid, familiar taste of tobacco in his mouth.

Andrew inhales and exhales, and does it again just to prove he can, and then reconsiders heading to his car and leaving everything in this apartment complex in the dust.

Focusing on Neil’s ridiculous words is easier than even _considering_ how quickly he’d left, perceptive and alert and respecting his boundaries without even a word.

Impossibly.

Andrew knows he hates impossible things. He’ll figure Josten out.

* * *

“Hey,” Neil says, catching Nicky’s attention. “I know you want to make your video thing, but I’m not sure — “

“Shut up,” Andrew says. Neil startles: he hadn’t expected Andrew to be so hot on his heels. But surely that means he didn’t fuck up _too_ badly?

Neil hasn’t sought anything like this before — a _friendship,_ or the kind of quiet comfort that Andrew’s presence inexplicably brings. He’d stumbled into Matt accidentally, searching for an apartment in South Carolina the moment his wounds had scabbed over. Stuart hadn’t _quite_ approved, but he’d funded the venture nonetheless, and Neil had managed to carve out a space for himself in Palmetto.

There’s something about Andrew, though. Neil feels drawn to him, recognizes the shadow in his eyes as the one Neil sees when he deigns to look in a mirror. It’s rare for someone to look at him without the underlying pity that even Matt is awful at hiding most days, and it’s a soothing balm to Neil’s heart.

He’s not broken. He’s a _survivor._

And Andrew clearly is, too. He doesn't need details to know that.

“Everything okay?” Matt asks, looking between them.

Neil meets Andrew’s eyes, and deliberately, with the air of pseudo-nonchalance, the blond scratches at his nose with his middle finger.

“Yeah,” Neil says with a laugh. “Everything’s fine. Let’s do this.”

* * *

They play together. Nicky’s voice is perfectly pitched, Aaron’s low-grade annoyance complementing the low thrum of his bass. Andrew feels a ridiculous impulse to show off as they pick up the rhythm to a quick-paced pop-punk song. His sticks are well-worn, the wood bending flawlessly around the curve of his fingers. It feels right, like the loud, thumping percussion reverberating around him is a warm blanket.

Neil is awful, but they all expected that.

His fingers can’t quite keep up with the tempo, but he’s having a blast anyway, too-long hair flying haphazardly as he spectacularly matches Andrew’s headbangs and spectacularly fails to play any note successfully.

It may not have the morbid humor of Neil’s viral video, but repetition is boring and stale.

Neil, though, is anything but.

* * *

“We’ve got a _huge_ treat for you guys,” Nicky’s saying to his phone, which is streaming live to his Eye-Gee, whatever the hell that is. “Say hello to our special guest!”

Neil is, as the saying goes, nearly dead on his feet — heh, dead in his _seat_ — but he manages to scrunch his nose up and offer a wave to the glassy black camera when it’s pointed at him. “I’m famous now,” he says. “It’s exhausting. You all owe me reparations.”

“We’re killing him as soon as this stream ends so we don’t have to pay,” Aaron says, and Andrew hadn’t even deigned to be in the video, opting instead to beeline for the kitchen to grab a beer.

It feels… nice. Nicer than Neil could have anticipated. 

* * *

Andrew despises cheap beer, but he despises no beer even more than that, and takes a long pull from the bottle of piss-water that Neil’s roommate has stocked. A few minutes pass before Neil joins him. In the living room, Andrew can hear Nicky chattering away and the low tones of Aaron interjecting. 

They’re safer than Andrew probably is right now.

“No more collaborations,” Neil says, which is likely a precursor to _Don’t come here anymore._ “I haven’t been this tired since Samina had me try walking for the first time.”

Andrew’s steeled himself enough for disappointment over the years that this one hardly registers beyond the resigned tightening in his gut. “You shouldn’t wear yourself out.”

“It was worth it,” Neil says, too quick to be honest. He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. “But I don’t — I don’t want to be famous. I’ve spent my entire life _hiding,_ and this is overwhelming.”

He offers Neil a single sharp nod. It’s probably for the best that they’re cutting this off before it can become infected and poison Andrew’s blood.

“But,” Neil continues, and oh, Andrew hadn’t expected that. He’s caught off-guard, but manages to steel his face into something expressionless. “I’d like to see you again. You know, do something like this again. If that’s an option.”

There is no _this,_ because acknowledging that there might be is far too dangerous.

Eyes narrowed, Andrew asks, “Why.” 

“I want to live.” Neil says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s a truth of the universe. “Surviving was enough for a long time, until it wasn’t.”

Distantly, Andrew thinks this is what it must feel like to be gutted, to have your vital organs slipping to the ground as you watch and can do nothing but observe as you’re shepherded toward your death.

They’re silent. Andrew’s mediocre beer is slippery in his hand.

He wants to leave. He wants to stay.

He _wants,_ and really, that should have been the biggest indicator.

Slowly but with certainty, Andrew says, “You should come to one of our shows,” as a test. Neutral ground: Neil clearly appreciates The Monsters. It doesn’t have to be an invitation beyond the obvious. 

But it could be.

Neil looks relieved as he fiddles with his wrist braces. He keeps grabbing at his fingers nervously, hands frantically overlapping each other in what must be some sort of tic. Andrew waits it out: it’s clear he wants to say something.

Neil looks up, determination flashing in his eyes, before he asks, “Can I touch you?”

 _No,_ Andrew almost says, the word fit to bursting out of him. _Absolutely not._ How could he? How, how, how, his mind keens.

“I noticed that you don’t really let anyone,” Neil says. “But I just thought — “

“Yes.”

Neil’s _oh_ is quiet and far too soft for Andrew to tuck it away like he does. Time seems suspended in this moment, a long run-on and a single heartbeat and the entirety of their shared knowledge of the cruelty of man. Neil stands on careful legs that wobble for only the briefest of moments, and steps forward until he’s in Andrew’s space, and then he’s sliding a hand around the curve of Andrew’s jaw and against his thin, sensitive skin, Andrew can feel the bump and slide of countless scars. 

With Neil so close to Andrew’s jugular, he thinks, foolishly, recklessly, that the vulnerability of it is bearable. 

Then Neils tugs at a curling piece of hair by Andrew’s ear and flashes a mischievous grin. He pulls away, meeting Andrew’s eyes roguishly before looking at his own hands like he’s never seen them before.

“Thank you,” he says, sounding so genuine that Andrew finds himself speechless for a heartbeat. “I’d love to see a show. When’s your next one?”

All of this is impossible. Andrew has no idea what any of it means.

But for once, maybe he can overcome those odds. It doesn’t seem like he’ll be alone for it.


End file.
